


If We All Die Tomorrow

by scarletfish



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Drinking to Cope, Hurt/Comfort, I've wanted to use that tag for so long, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Pre-Canon, featuring some s3 angst as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29799519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletfish/pseuds/scarletfish
Summary: "Something's... off, with him today," Sasha muses. From the karaoke stage, Tim belts out an especially off-key line. He's four shots in, and Jon's still nursing his first cider."You know, the signs are very subtle, but I think you might be right," Jon remarks drily.Two times Jon offers to sleep on the couch and one time Tim lets him.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 11
Kudos: 46





	If We All Die Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-archives fluff (?) because my other WIPs are making me saaaad. Don't think too hard about the timeline but basically Jon, Tim, and Sasha have all been working in research for a little less than a year. 
> 
> (Title from song with the same name by Tom Rosenthal, listen while thinking of s3 archives crew without crying challenge)

"Something's... off, with him today." Sasha twirls her straw between her fingers, watching Tim heave himself onto the bar's small karaoke stage for the second time that night to a smattering of drunk applause. 

Jon’s managed to avoid accompanying his coworkers out for drinks thus far- he filled his quota of intoxicated mishaps at uni, thank you very much. And though it's Tuesday and he has every excuse to work late and then wind down at home in front of a new documentary he's been saving, well… there had been a certain desperation in Tim's voice when he invited them. 

To use Sasha's phrasing, he's been ‘slightly off’ all day. The grin plastered across his face a bit too wide, laughter a bit too loud. He pestered Sasha until she snapped at him in the breakroom, and apparently made an intern cry. 

Sasha had reassured Jon before they left that everyone would make it to work in the morning just fine, don't worry, getting wasted on a Tuesday night was _not_ their standard procedure. 

That being said, getting wasted is certainly on Tim’s agenda for the night. He's four shots in, and Jon's still nursing his first cider of the evening.

From the stage, Tim belts out an especially off-key line.

"Yes, the signs are very subtle, but I think you might be right," Jon remarks drily. Sasha raises a pointed eyebrow at her only sober companion as if to say, _Fine_ _ _,_ are you going to take care of this then, or should I? _

Jon wavers. All things considered, it _should_ be Sasha. Her friendship with Tim has a good few months on Jon’s, though they all met in research almost a year ago. And with Tim obviously having a bad time of it, Jon figures he’s the last person anyone would want around for comfort or emotional support. 

Plus… 

Pretending he hasn’t yet caught her meaning, Jon swirls the remaining liquid in his glass into a whirlpool. “You know, I believe that new documentary that you’d mentioned last week, the one about the deep sea-”

“The one about the deep-sea explorers, right..." She catches where he's taking this and raises her eyebrows. "The one that just released tonight.” 

Jon shrugs. “Looks interesting.” 

Sasha’s eyes narrow and her grin sharpens. “Quite.”

There's a small commotion as Tim stumbles off the stage and knocks into a waiter with a slurred apology. 

One thing is painfully clear: someone is going to have a relaxing night learning about William Beebe and Otis Barton, and someone is going to have to deal with… that. 

Fortunately, Jon has a foolproof plan. He's about to pivot straight into excusing himself, allowing Sasha to pass his apologies to Tim. _Home free by ten._

Unfortunately, Sasha isn’t a fool. Tim drops into the booth right as Jon’s starting in with, “Right, well, it’s getting late-” and immediately starts trying to coax the others into another round,

Sasha subtly slides her nearly full drink out of his reach. “Would love to Stoker, but as Jon just pointed out, it’s getting late, and there’s a show I’ve been meaning to catch up on." She kicks Jon under the table and he jerks with an affronted hiss.

 _"What was_ that _for?"_

"And, you know what Tim? Our new drinking mate is looking a bit tipsy- see each other safely home, yeah?”

Next thing Jon knows he’s supporting an unsteady Tim into a cab while Sasha bids them good night with a cheery smile and a “Don’t stay up too late, boys!” 

She might’ve said something else, but Tim leans forward to compliment the driver on his eyes and Jon becomes more concerned with trying to fit the seat belt over his arms as he repeatedly tries to shrug it off.

"Fine! Fly through the windshield for all I care!" Jon acquiesces, detangling himself from Tim's flailing limbs. He instantly regrets that decision when the car starts moving and, sans restraint, Tim tips sideways into Jon’s lap. “M’don’t feel very good,” he groans into Jon’s thigh.

"I can't imagine why," Jon grits out, meeting the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror.

“If he throws up, you’re paying for the detail.”

“R-r-right, of course,” Jon stammers, desperately trying to nudge Tim upright and cool the raging blush on his face.

He’s generally unsuccessful at both, but glad to have rolled down the window when, as they pull up to the complex, Tim lurches over Jon to vomit onto the pavement.

 _Sasha owes him big time for this one_.

* * *

Tim doesn’t throw up again, and while he still seems a bit unsteady (it takes ages to get him up the stairs and Jon has to unlock the front door), he perks up quite a bit at the idea of chips from the corner shop.

Jon spends an awkward twenty minutes perched on the couch arm, ready to fetch water or their food delivery or worst case, a trash bin, until Tim remarks that Jon ‘looks like he's about to flee at any minute, and it’s making me anxious.’

You _make me anxious_ , Jon doesn’t say. He settles for an exasperated, “How’s your stomach, then?”

Tim winks and Jon flushes, suddenly wondering if the other man remembers curling a possessive arm around his calf in the taxi and murmuring "Sorry 'bout all this, you looked pretty tonight." It's not something Jon plans on remembering, ever. It's going in the box marked "unprofessional," alongside the first time they met and the way he felt when he came across Tim sleeping at his desk. 

(Though he does slide off his perch and scrunch himself into the furthest corner of the couch, toeing off his shoes and tucking his legs underneath him.)

Tim seems fine right up until the food order has been placed. He's ridiculously smashed, laughing at his own terrible jokes and often losing his train of thought, but Jon prefers that to what comes next.

With no immediate goal left, the obnoxious energy just... drains away. When Jon comes back from the small kitchen with a couple glasses of water, he finds Tim staring listlessly at the blank screen of the television set.

“Er… Tim?” No response.

Jon slowly goes for the remote. _Most late-night reruns are terrible, but bad cooking shows can’t be worse than... whatever's playing out in Tim's head_. He deftly flips through static and catalogue channels until he lands on some generic program with bad CGI and pretty adults dressed up as teenagers.

Does he stand, or sit? Stay, or leave?

He nearly drops the remote when Tim abruptly breaks the silence.

“Are you an only child, Jon?” 

“I- what? I mean, yes?” Frozen next to the coffee table, Jon tries to process the shift in conversation. There's something just out of reach, some piece of information that would make this make sense. “Tim, is this about- I mean, you haven't ever-”

Jon is still trying to put together the question as it leaves his mouth, but the sound of the doorbell cuts him off and Tim starts shaking his head.

The motion sets him off balance and he nearly goes down when his foot catches on the coffee table.

Jon grabs for him and misses. “Are you _sure_ you're-”

“Mmhm. Nevermind. Jus' wondering,'' the door squeaks as it opens. “ _God_ yes, this pizza can have my _soul_.” With that, the moment is over.

Jon is spooked enough that he almost texts Sasha, trying to figure out the missing puzzle piece, but... he's still irritated with her. And besides, he's an adult, he can handle... whatever this is. 

Tim never does turn the volume up, choosing instead to regale Jon with (probably embellished) tales from his Trinity College while they down greasy slices of cheese and pepperoni. Tim is slowly sobering up, underscoring Jon's awkward conversational skills, but they manage until the food is gone. Afterwards they leave the show running quietly, following the subtitles in companionable silence. 

Tim doesn’t bring up whatever’s bothering him. Jon doesn’t try to ask again. He simply keeps Tim’s water cup filled and clears away the remains of dinner, grabbing extra blankets from the hall closet at one point per Tim’s directions. 

Tim comments on the show a couple of times, explaining major plot points and characters to Jon, who's finding it a bit difficult to focus since Tim dropped his arm to rest across Jon's knees. _He isn't going to try and interpret that either._

There's also the question of how long he’s meant to stay- when he checks the clock to find it’s half past eleven, he starts to feel fidgety.

Tim isn’t sobbing into his pillow or anything, but Jon still feels... useless. Is this what friends do? Is Tim waiting for him to leave so he can fall apart in private? This can’t have been what Sasha intended. 

It’s Sasha who should be curled in Jon's place right now, talking Tim down from whatever ledge he’s standing on, or at the very least making him laugh. It should be Sasha curled under a spare blanket, feet tucked behind her, head resting on the arm of the couch. ~~_Knees pressed against Tim's left thigh, thrilling at the warmth of Tim’s arm every time he casually drapes it across Jon’s legs._ ~~

Maybe Jon is more tired than he thought. He tries to stifle a massive yawn with his arm and fails. It’s been silent for so long that he startles a bit when Tim stretches his arms abruptly over his head and lets out a loud sigh.

“I heard that,” Tim leans over from his position on the couch to feel for the remote on the coffee table in front of Jon. His ribs press against Jon’s knees pleasantly as he proceeds to knock it even further away. “It’s- dammit- time to turn in for the night. You’ve had a long day.”

Jon huffs out a quiet chuckle. “Right.” 

There must be some sarcasm leaking into his tone, because Tim narrows his eyes and tries to make a rude gesture. He’s balancing on his knees precariously, and the effect is ruined when he fumbles the remote onto the floor and almost tips off the edge lunging for it. 

Jon stifles a smile. He isn't even that tired, just… well, he was unexpectedly comfortable, to be honest. 

They've migrated towards each other as the night goes on. At first Jon was hyper aware of every point of contact, nearly vibrating with anxiety. But as the night drew on and he started sinking into the soft cushions himself, it’s almost… nice? _That might be too strong a word_. It's _bearable_. And confusing.

This seems clear enough though. Tim's ready for Jon to leave, and Jon is going to pull himself away from their warm spot on the couch. Any moment now.

Tim rights himself, remote clutched victorious in his hand. He points it at Jon, misreading the disgruntled look on his face. 

“You shut up. I threw up _once_. And I'm fine now. Fast metabolism and all that.” He tosses Jon a grin that has Jon's stomach twisting in knots.

“I- wasn’t going to comment. Right, I’ll just…” Jon awkwardly motions to the door as he sits up, “...if you’re sure you’re all right?”

Tim stares blankly for a moment before reaching out to catch Jon’s wrist as he makes to rise.

“Oh. Oh! S’alright, I forget you haven’t been over before. You can just sleep here?” At Jon’s look of distress, Tim chuckles and gently tugs at his wrist until he’s sitting again. “Jon you live thirty minutes away and it’s a quarter to one. How exactly are you planning on getting yourself home?” 

“I’m quite capable of calling a _cab_ , Tim-” 

“Look, I promise I'm not trying to proposition you or anything, I’ll take the couch. My bed’s made, sheets are clean. Make yourself comfortable.” He says it so casually that Jon involuntarily chokes on air and starts spluttering.

“I didn't think- that- that would be--” _inappropriate_ seems like the wrong word, and so does _unprofessional_ , but Jon’s brain has gone completely blank at the thought of Tim’s bed. _Sitting on it. Sleeping in it. In Tim’s bedroom._

The mirth fades from Tim’s face a bit at Jon’s obvious discomfort and he runs a hand through his hair. 

“Seriously, you did me a huge favor. I was…” a shadow crosses his face, “honestly, I was planning on having a pretty miserable night. Even Sasha wasn’t keen to stick around for that again. I’m glad I wasn’t alone. Plus, you can barely keep your eyes open, you shouldn’t be wandering the city alone.”

“I-I mean it wasn't a _favor_ , Sasha called that cab for both of us-” Tim cuts him off with a raised hand. 

“Jon, you were sober as a nun the whole night, and you’re a horrendous liar,” he flashes the smile he uses when he’s trying to distract someone, the shiny one he pulls on strangers and new people, and this knowledge stings a bit. “I know you came back here and stayed as long as you did to keep an eye on me.” 

“I did _not_ -”

“ _Which!_ Was very sweet, thank you. You've helped more than you know just by staying. I’m fine. And I’m not letting you sleep on my couch.”

“I’m really all right here, I’m half-asleep already-”

“Absolutely not. Now you’re just being stubborn. Get up.” 

It’s the most childish thing to argue over, in someone else’s flat nonetheless, but Jon’s grandmother always told him he’d make a mountain out of a molehill just so he could die on it. (He’d told her she was mixing her metaphors. She hadn’t appreciated that.)

“No.”

“Get- _up_ _!”_ Tim rises to nudge him sharply with his knee. Jon doesn’t budge.

“Go to bed, Tim.”

“I’m _trying_ , but _someone_ won’t get off the couch!”

Jon turns his face into the pillow, shifting so he’s curled facing the back of the couch. 

Tim seems to give up, but instead of walking away, he just slaps off the overhead light and slumps heavily at Jon’s feet. 

_“You’re not running away from who you are. You’re running away from who you think you’re becoming,”_ one of the unnaturally muscular teens insists on screen.

Tim punches that off too.

The lack of eye contact and low lights give Jon a short burst of confidence. “Do you want to, erm, talk about it?” He keeps his face turned into the pillow, like Tim is a cornered animal and anything more direct might scare him off. He gets a sharp bark of laughter in return.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather kiss Elias. On the mouth.” 

Jon can’t help the light teasing that slips into his tone. “ _Interesting_ …” 

Tim lightly shoves his knee, leaving his palm there for a moment longer than necessary, and his heart flutters again. For the first time that night, he feels like he's done something right.

“Meaning I’d _rather not_ , you dolt.” 

They drift into comfortable silence, and Jon doesn’t even realize he’s falling sleep until the couch abruptly drops away from him and he's ripped back into consciousness.

“Wha-!”

“Up we go!” This gleeful declaration from Tim is accompanied by a slight stumble as he shifts to rearrange Jon’s weight. Jon makes an involuntary noise in his throat. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to drop you-” Jon’s feet collide with a door frame. “Er, my bad, watch your feet-” 

“That is _not_ my primary concern, Tim, put me down _immediately-_ ”

“Well all right, if you say so,” his captor replies smugly, and Jon releases an embarrassing squeak as he’s dropped a short distance onto something soft and forgiving. He scrambles up onto his elbows.

“Tim-!”

“G’night, Jon, _go to sleep!”_ The door closes behind him.

Jon collapses backwards, clutching at his chest where his heart is trying to escape. He’s partly irritated and partly… well. Mostly irritated. He can't- he can't believe Tim actually- and still drunk? He rubs a hand absentmindedly over the spot where Tim's arm was wrapped around his shoulders, trying to gather a single coherent thought.

Rolling onto his side, he surveys the room around him. It’s unsurprisingly cluttered. Nothing too wild, just a few rumpled piles of clothing on the floor and quite a few knickknacks spread across a small desk. There are a few posters hung up that Jon can’t quite make out in the darkness, but when he turns to his other he spots a makeshift collection of photos taped to the wall.

There are a few more recent ones of Tim and Sasha, some that are obviously from college or earlier, and then… hm. There’s an area close to Jon’s head where the photos are clustered a bit closer together than usual and it almost looks like… he runs his finger under a photo of Tim with a mullet, arm slung around an older woman in a tiny kitchen, and sure enough, there’s a smaller photo hung underneath. 

At first he thinks he’s seeing double, but Jon quickly realizes the taller boy in the photo is someone he’s never met. The similarities between him and Tim are uncanny, but up close Jon can see the difference in nose shape, the blonde hair in place of Tim’s deep brown. 

He flips the picture up to look for context clues, hoping something will be written on the back, but it’s blank.

Feeling guilty and _wanting_ something he can’t quite put words to, Jon rolls over and tries to go to sleep.

* * *

_One day before the Unknowing_

“I can- I’ll take the couch.” 

Tim hardly reacts, eyes passing over Jon as if he’s a ghost to land on the narrow fold-out where Jon’s dropped his small duffel.

He doesn't move from the doorway. 

There are so many things Jon should be worried about right now: the Unknowing, Orsinov, plastic fingers and sightless eyes roving over his body. But all he can focus on is the drawstring bag slung over Tim’s shoulder. 

The one Jon’s been ignoring since this afternoon. 

The archival staff isn’t naive enough to assume monsters only come out in the dark. Not anymore. But when Daisy suggested they stay at a nearby motel overnight and begin planting the explosives early the following morning, no one protested.

They'd planned to possibly stay an extra night as well, just to follow up the next day and make sure nothing unnatural managed to crawl out of the rubble and regroup. 

A fit of hysteria bubbled up in Jon’s throat when he went to stuff a spare toothbrush in his travel bag. ‘ _Can’t have dirty teeth when we stop the end of the world, can we, archivist?’_ cackled a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like the Queen of Puppets herself. 

_He couldn’t recall when he started referring to himself by his title rather than his name._

By the time he’d choked down his hysteria, the others had loaded the work van and were gathered in the parking lot impatiently. It had taken Jon a moment, blinking away the sun, before he'd realized that something was missing. 

“Tim, where-" compulsion crackled in the back of his throat and he swallowed, forcing it down like acid. "You're not bringing a bag.” 

It wasn't a question anymore, but the others bristled all the same. Tim shoved off where he’d been leaning against the trunk with a sneer. _Jon remembers his voice, scathing and unnaturally bright_. 

“Actually Jon, thought I’d kill you in your sleep and take yours. Got any nice skin care products in there?” 

Recent panic attack fresh in his mind, Jon blanched at the words ‘skin care.’ There at least, Tim had the decency to look a bit guilty. He turned away, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder. “Just... pull around front, I’ll be there in a sec.”

When he emerged, there was a small drawstring bag slung over his shoulder, and Jon knew better than to ask any further questions. 

Now, in these final hours before end of the world, Jon wishes he’d asked more.

He wants to know why Tom didn't seem bothered to bring anything with him for a three day mission. He wants to know if Tim remembers the first night he spent at his flat, and what his favorite thing about his brother was, and what mindless game he's been playing on his phone lately to stave off the madness.

He wants to know if Tim has a tether, something worth walking out of this for, or if Jon's burned every bridge and left his former friend a sinking island. 

When Tim finally moves, it's to sling his bag at the foot of the couch and walk straight into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly. The lock clicks and, realizing he’s been holding his breath, Jon releases it in a soft _whoosh_.

In a couple of minutes, his joints unlock, and he moves mechanically to lie on the couch. Doesn’t bother unfolding it, just curls his arms to his chest and props a scratchy pillow on top of his duffel.

Tim doesn’t emerge for a long while. Jon considers searching for a blanket. He wonders if the dresser holds any extra pillows, and then he imagines a tiny mannequin folded in the closet, clattering out to knife them in their sleep. He plays out that nightmare for a bit, and then, after what feels like hours of lying uncomfortably still but has probably only been minutes, Jon’s curiosity gets the best of him.

He scoots forward until his arms hang over the arm of the couch and tugs open the bag his companion dropped on the floor. His stomach drops.

The bag is empty save for the detonator that Tim’s insisted on keeping a hold of since he first got his hands on it.

In another world, Jon might’ve felt something other than a vague, sinking dread. There was a time between their awkward early friendship and this suspicious, awful enmity when he might've pounded on the bathroom door, demanding that Tim come out and explain himself. Begged him, despite everything, to _want_ to survive whatever horrors the Circus has in store for them. Tried to be something worth staying alive for.

Instead, when Tim finally emerges, Jon has washed his face in the kitchen sink and is lying stock-still on the lumpy couch. 

(He tried to make tea in the microwave, but steeped the bags so long they were too bitter to drink. In that moment he was hit with a thick wave of loneliness. He's glad Martin is safe. He wishes Martin were there. Both of these things are true.)

Tim settles into bed without a word. The bathroom light and two lamps cast strange shadows, and the silence teases Jon’s thoughts apart like string.

He opens his mouth a couple of times, an _‘are you awake?’_ burning on the tip of his tongue. It never passes his lips. 

* * *

Jon doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the following morning he jolts awake to Daisy’s fist on the door and a thin blanket around his shoulders that wasn’t there before. 

The fabric bunches in his fist as he fights a burning behind his eyes that must be due to lack of sleep. 

The itching sensation comes again when he emerges from the bathroom to find Tim pulling strips off a Styrofoam cup he’s filled with cheap coffee. He nods towards the half-filled pot. “Alright, boss?”

The long-abandoned nickname wraps around his chest and squeezes.

Surprised, Jon just does a sort of jerky nod and goes to grab the other dusty, packaged cup from the counter. When he’s filled it, he watches the liquid swirl and then settle, building his resolve. _Now or never, probably_. 

“Tim, I-”

“I know.” The rest of the words die in Jon’s throat. They stare at each other, less than two feet away, far too much distance to cross in such an impossibly short time.

He repeats it again, softer. “I know, Jon.” 

So even though Tim can’t possibly know, not everything, not even a fraction of the things Jon wants to say, even though he can’t possibly understand the feelings Jon hasn’t yet manage to sort out in his own chest… he nods. 

Once. Twice. And then Daisy’s back, pounding at the door again. 

All too soon, they follow her to the parking lot, and a new determination grows with each step Jon takes from behind Tim, watching that tiny bag swing from his shoulder. 

_They’re both coming back tonight._

It's a pretty lie.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorrryyyy, I literally came here to write a quick 1k of pre-canon fluff and my brain was like “but what if sad? what if hurt/no comfort parallel?”


End file.
